


Little Lion Man

by Elvendork



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arguing, Jealousy, M/M, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=650456#t650456">prompt</a>.</p><p>Martin and Douglas are refusing to speak to each other, and nobody but them knows why. It's hardly Arthur's strong point, but unless he manages to sort this out, MJN will be in ruins and the pilots might never make up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Cabin Pressure, and no profit is being made.  
> Two firsts: my first multi chapter CP fiction, and my first 'pairing' CP fiction - so I'm extremely nervous about it's reception...

To be completely honest, Douglas is actually reluctantly impressed with how well Martin’s resolve is holding up. When he had shouted – very childishly in Douglas’s opinion – that he was never going to speak to the First Officer _ever_ again, Douglas had not for a moment thought to take him seriously. An hour at most, he thought – he remembers his daughter throwing similar threats his way (with much the same righteous petulance as Martin’s declaration) and it never lasted more than about ninety minutes, tops.

True to his word, however, Martin had not spoken a single syllable to Douglas for the rest of the day. Twenty four hours later and more than halfway into the flight to Dubai, he has still not communicated directly once.

It was beginning to get tedious when Carolyn ran through the flight briefing. It was irritating when he made no response to Douglas’s proposal of the Word Association Game. It was downright worrying when he neglected to scold Douglas for his deliberately casual approach to the pre-flight safety checks.

They have been flying in complete silence for long enough now that even Arthur’s inappropriately cheery input would be greatly appreciated.

‘Oh come on Martin, stop being so ridiculous,’ Douglas says abruptly; his voice seems unnaturally loud after so long without either of them uttering a word. Martin ignores him, his eyes fixed determinedly dead ahead; he does not so much as twitch at Douglas’s voice, and his mouth remains firmly closed, a tight, severe line ill fitting with his usual over-eager self. ‘This is juvenile – you can’t honestly think you can keep this up indefinitely.’

No reply. Douglas’s frustration grows, and his bruised ego smarts painfully. This is Martin. _Martin_ can’t be getting the better of him – it’s against all the natural laws of the universe.

‘Look,’ he tries again irritably, ‘can’t you just –’

‘Arthur?’ Martin calls, pressing the intercom button and interrupting Douglas as though he hasn’t heard him, ‘can you come up here a moment please?’

Seconds later Arthur bounces happily up to the door, but when he peeks around it and feels the thick tension on the flight deck, even his mood is visibly dampened.

‘What is it, Skip?’ he asks nervously. Martin looks around at him, eyes sliding across the other pilot without the faintest trace of recognition.

‘Could you please inform Douglas that I am not going to change my mind, and that is final?’

Arthur nods obediently and quickly turns to Douglas, ‘Skipper says –’

‘I heard him. You can’t _really_ mean it Martin, it’s stupid, just forget it, okay? Martin?’ He pauses, ‘Captain?’

Martin continues to ignore him.

‘Err,’ says Arthur slowly, ‘umm, I think you’re supposed to say it through me,’ he advises, then brightens, his face lighting up happily, ‘is this a new game?’ he asks enthusiastically, ‘is it like Simon Says, only –’

‘No it’s not a game, it’s Martin behaving like a three year old,’ says Douglas, his tone like acid, ‘clearly he has decided to relinquish any already tenuous hold he might have had on the adult world and has descended into a sulk worthy of a spoiled toddler. Well, fine. Two can play at that game, and I’m quite certain that I have ten times the self control _Sir_ –’ he spits the word as derisively as possible ‘– possesses. Tell him that when he’s ready to grow up and apologise, I’m ready and willing to listen. Until then, all communication channels are disabled.’

‘ _Me_ apologise?’ Exclaims Martin furiously, ‘ _You_ –’ he realises his mistake just in time and rapidly changes tack, addressing Arthur instead, ‘can tell _First Officer_ Richardson that when _he_ decides to apologise, I will definitely _not_ be listening, because it’s too late for that and as of the moment we land back in Fitton I will be officially searching for a new job.’

If it is physically possible, the silence in the wake of Martin’s outburst is even heavier and more oppressing than that at the start of the flight.

Arthur gapes, mouth open and eyes wide, looking uncertainly between the two pilots, not quite able to process the threat.

Martin grits his teeth to stop himself taking the words back. He regrets them as soon as he has spoken but he’ll be damned if he’s admitting that to Douglas – instead he resumes his steadfast refusal to acknowledge Douglas’s presence, and avoids Arthur’s questioning eyes guiltily.

Douglas reels. Martin can’t mean that. He can’t _really_...he’s just being typically melodramatic, that’s all. And the knot in Douglas’s stomach – the feeling of being winded, as though he has been punched – is frustration. It’s anger, not concern. Certainly not _fear_. Of course not.

Even so, for the first time in a very, very long time, he has to work to keep his voice steady when he speaks.

‘Very well,’ he says at last, without a trace of the undeniable, though momentary, horror that flashed through him at Martin’s announcement. Then, even though he knows it is the absolute worst thing he could possibly say, the very _worst_ decision he could make, he continues. ‘Although you should tell Sir that he might want to strike the word _new_ from that sentence, since it implies that his position at MJN is something approaching a _real_ job. I would wish Sir good luck, but I am afraid I haven’t the heart to want to inflict his insufferable presence on whichever hapless, desperate airline he somehow manages to plead an offer from.’

Douglas, coming to his senses, claps his mouth shut.

Martin’s knuckles have gone white and a muscle jumps in his jaw.

Arthur looks positively terrified. ‘I, err...’ he begins hesitantly, deep concern written all over his face as he watches Martin carefully, at a complete loss for what to do.

‘I heard,’ Martin says stiffly, to spare both Arthur from the trouble of repeating it and himself having to hear it again. He swallows hard and concentrates on the screen in front of him.

‘Umm...Skip?’ Arthur tries quietly, ‘are you...are you okay? I mean it’s just that your voice has gone all high and you’re blinking quite a lot...and you’re all pale...’

‘I’m fine,’ Martin insists in a quivering voice,

‘But –’

‘I’m fine, Arthur. Thank you. You can go now.’

With a last, frightened look between them, Arthur backs out of the door, leaving them once more in complete silence.

Martin swallows again and focuses on stopping his hands from shaking. He takes deliberately even breaths and tries to force himself to stop blinking so much. God knows he is well aware of how merciless Douglas’s teasing can be – they’ve been flying together so long now that most of the lighter insults just roll off, but his _tone_ then...Martin has never heard Douglas actually actively out to hurt before. And it has worked.

Why does everything Douglas attempts have to be so successful? Why does Martin even still _care_ after yesterday? Why is it that even though this whole thing is very much Douglas’s fault, he desperately wants to turn around and just say _sorry_ so it can be over?

But his pride, and the words from their previous argument that still echo in his head, stop him making any move towards reparation.

0000

The hotel Carolyn has booked them into is not the worst they have ever stayed in, but neither is it the best.

Martin is relieved to have his own room at least, and sinks dejectedly onto the too-thin mattress as soon as the door is closed. He checks his phone absently and sees three missed calls from Simon. More than in the last six months, he muses ruefully, throwing the handset aside with no intention of returning his brother’s attempts at contact.

Simon has always been more successful than him – he’s used to it. There is nothing new about the smug, superior way his brother addresses him, or the lingering resentment over the fact that Simon is invariably excellent at whatever he happens to try his hand in.

He’s a little like Douglas in the respect, Martin thinks, only not nearly as –

He stops himself short of thinking _charming_ , flushing red even though there is no one here to see.

Damn Douglas. Really, what right does he have to be so – so – oh, why can’t Martin just _hate_ him?

The part of his mind that answers does so in the kind of teasing, sing-song voice Simon used to use when they were children. Martin responds by huffing loudly and grabbing his phone again, taking great pleasure in deleting his call history and seeing Simon’s name vanish from the screen.

It’s all Simon’s fault, after all, he concedes, thumping the _delete all_ button on the texts as well. Rich, handsome, funny _bloody_ Simon...that jealousy is not new either, but he hasn’t felt it this strongly in a long while. He remembers too many times to count the disappointment of a crush who preferred one of the other of his siblings. They can’t really help it he supposes – they are hardly to blame that he is quite so hopeless – but they don’t have to _rub it in_ the way Simon always has.

And why can’t he be angry with them? What’s stopping him? It feels _good_ to have some sort of outlet. And don’t they deserve it? Doesn’t _he_ deserve it? Just this, if he can have nothing else, the freedom to be as furious as he bloody well likes with the pair of them and their perfect lives and their perfect partners and everything else they have that he doesn’t?

0000

Douglas finds Martin in the hotel bar. He isn’t looking for him, and since he no longer drinks himself his presence here is otherwise redundant, but there is something about the atmosphere he supposes. Something familiar that draws in all the people who have nowhere else to go than a blank, grey-walled hotel room with a broken TV.

He could of course work his not inconsiderable charms to find his way into the bedroom of his choice for the night, as he has so often advised of Martin – he’s a happily divorced man, after all – but the prospect doesn’t appeal to him as much as it should and he instead finds himself making his solitary way up to the bar, where an already decidedly drunk MJN Captain is seated.

As Douglas approaches him – or rather, the stool several feet to his left whilst pointedly _not_ looking at the younger man – Martin turns around, swaying where he sits, his eyes nevertheless settling on Douglas with absolute clarity for a moment before shifting distantly to a point somewhere over his shoulder.

‘No avoiding some people,’ he announces to the room at large, his words slurred as he turns back to the bar.

‘Especially not in a crowded _public_ area,’ Douglas replies equally ambiguously as he takes the seat he was originally aiming for and shrugs carelessly.

The barman, taking an order further along, eyes them warily, evidently weighing up the potential row he senses brewing against the money two extra customers will make him. He decides to stay out of things, for now.

Douglas watches Martin closely out of the corner of his eye, refusing to acknowledge the guilt that threatens to surface at the sight of him.

‘All Simon’s fault,’ Martin mumbles after a long silence; for a split second something like hope rises in Douglas’s chest at the prospect of reconciliation, but it is quickly banished as he takes in the fact that Martin still refuses to look him in the eye. Irritation drowns any remorse that might have otherwise developed.

‘No...no, not Simon’s fault,’ Martin continues, sounding confused at his own contradiction, ‘not Simon’s fault.’ He lapses into silence once more, then, doing a rather poor job of suppressing a burp, ‘Douglas’ss fault – no, shh...don’t say his name,’ he whispers dramatically, addressing his half drained glass, ‘He Who Mus’ Not bee Named...Voldmort, he’s Vol – de – mort,’ he enunciates with extreme care, then giggles.

That giggle is not _remotely_ endearing, Douglas reminds himself sternly, determined to remain angry.

‘I imagine this ‘Douglas’,’ Douglas says to the barman, who is still making an obvious effort to avoid the pair of them, ‘probably did very little at all. Sounds like an adolescent overreaction to me.’

Martin shakes his head slowly.

‘I’m successful,’ he continues, speaking into his drink, ‘I’m more successful than _him_ anyway, I’m _Captain_!’ He concentrates hard on forming the words, but they come out slurred anyway. The room is beginning to look pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, and he has to grip the side of the bar to stop sliding off his stool. ‘He p’fers Simon’s so brill – brilli – good.’

‘You see,’ Douglas says loudly, ‘it's pure jealousy –’

‘Jealous!’ Martin exclaims, holding up an unsteady finger, ‘good word’s that...he’s jealous. P’tended to his wife he was Captin ‘cause he’s jealous...’

Douglas rises from his seat abruptly, anger flaring hotly in his chest. Martin automatically follows suit, a little too quickly, and stumbles immediately.

‘Dizzy,’ he announces, his voice suddenly almost clear. He stands still for a moment before swaying and slumping forwards, collapsing miserably to the floor.

Douglas surveys him coldly, and walks away without a word.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realised how little dialogue there is in this chapter; sorry about that!  
> *Must. Stop. Writing. And. Revise.*

Martin wakes the following morning with a pounding headache and the distinct impression even before he opens his eyes (which, on doing, he concludes is a very bad idea and hastily closes them again) of the room spinning nauseatingly around him.

Sitting up, too, makes the world swim and lurch in a way he would very much rather avoid, so he abandons this plan as well and lays back on the bed to try and take stock of his surroundings with those senses that don’t make him feel like his head is being cleaved in two with a very large axe.

First things first; he’s in a bed. Not a particularly comfortable bed, admittedly, and one that currently seems to be doing a good impression of being at sea, with all this swaying, but a bed nonetheless.

Secondly, he informs himself firmly, he is _not_ actually swaying; the ground is perfectly level and still. It’s in his head, which he instructs to stop playing stupid games this instant so he can try and think. It ignores him. He does his best to ignore it in return, and organise his thoughts into a semi-coherent manner.

Back to the bed situation. One thing at a time. How did he get into a bed? He supposes – hopes – it is his bed, or at least the hotel one he was designated for the night in any case. He doesn’t actually remember getting into it though, so he can’t tell for certain.

The last thing he _does_ remember is being in the bar. This explains the headache and the lack of other memories, but isn’t comforting in the least. He groans and brings a hand up to his head, running his fingers through his tangled hair and digging his nails into his scalp as though to anchor himself. He pretends it’s working, and slowly the spinning dies down.

So. In the bar. He knows that much.

Douglas...Douglas was there. Yes – that seems to fit. But why does it make him angry? The images are a little blurred, but clear enough...the sound is coming and going like a badly tuned radio, difficult to make out.

He hears his own voice distantly blaming Simon for something, but the thought bounces around his head without anything to connect to yet. Well – there are a great number of things he could be annoyed with Simon for, it’s just that none of the reasons that present themselves appear to be particularly recent, and why is Douglas involved?

Okay. He takes a deep breath, the light filtering through his eyelids marginally less painful now than when he first tried opening them, but he doesn’t attempt to do so again.

Rewind.

In bed. That much he has gathered. Beforehand – in a bar. Fuzzy in between. Arthur’s face hovers in his mind’s eye for a moment. Did he get so drunk _Arthur_ had to bring him to his room? Cringing at the thought and making a mental note to apologise, he moves on. Or – well, back.

What was before the bar?

Simon trying to call him. Why would Simon try and call him? Anger flares again, but he can’t identify the source.

Before?

On the plane. Which game had they been playing this time – and by how much had he been losing? It takes a moment to register that this is not another lapse in his memory – they hadn’t been playing one. They hadn’t even been talking – again Arthur’s face comes to him, looking frightened and uncertain, and he feels another prickling of guilt.

Rewind again, faster this time, further, and Arthur’s face is replaced by Simon’s car.

Oh.

The uncertainty and underlying frustration are swamped suddenly by a rush of resentment, anger, and – strongest of all – _envy_.

Why – _why_ – did he tell Simon about the van? Or not so much tell him, Martin supposes, he just let it slip. He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth – bad enough that his only form of transport is a van closer to falling apart than Gertie, next to Simon’s shiny new company car, but that his brother should find out that said van in fact has gone and broken down on him? And worse still that Simon should be in town at the time – _oh, I’m around anyway, and I’d love to meet them all...you never stop going on about them..._

If he had to suffer the humiliation of Simon knowing about the van, did he really have to go and agree to a lift as well? He sighs loudly at the memory, more irritated with himself than anything. With his own stupidity. The very _last_ thing he’d wanted was for Simon to meet Carolyn, or Arthur, and least of all –

 _You must be Douglas._

Martin’s ears had burned just at that, and his face flushes red now remembering, partly from embarrassment and partly from anger. Of course Douglas had to choose _that_ day to arrive on time – early even. Of course he had to walk straight into Simon. Of course he had to compliment Simon’s _damn_ car and of bloody course they just _had_ to hit it off straight away.

Simon, who is rich, at least compared to Martin, and confident, and has effortlessly pulled very single friend Martin has ever introduced to him.

It was immediately obvious that Douglas much preferred Simon’s company to Martin’s – he was even polite, and he never once made any of his usual sarcastic remarks to the elder Crieff, who had laughed smugly and made a point of making sure Martin felt about an inch tall. God, if his brother can charm even Douglas, what hope is there?

They chatted and swapped stories and generally made themselves merry while Martin looked on with an ever growing serpent twisting in his chest at the sight – he’d known this would happen all along. Why would anyone, especially Douglas, look at him with Simon present?

He had finally – _finally_ – seen Simon off and Douglas had turned to him and said _he seems nice_ in a way Martin still can’t decide whether it was genuine or sarcastic. He can’t even remember what he said in response, only that he took a savage pleasure in how taken aback Douglas looked when he did. Serves him right.

His resentment simmered for the rest of the day, giving no sign of dissipating and making him tetchy and irritable to the point that when Douglas asked about – something...the walk around? The hold temperature? The _weather_? What does it matter? He had replied with _why don’t you ask_ Simon?

Douglas – for possibly the first time since Martin met him – looked thoroughly at a loss.

 _What on Earth are you talking about?_

Martin hadn’t been thinking. The only thing he could see was the victorious, superior look on Simon’s face, and the pang in his chest turned into a full blown explosion.

 _You know perfectly well what I’m talking about._

Douglas’s reply was automatic – _very rarely_. That comment was just – just _Douglas_ , just dry and amused and _normal_ , but it had _hurt_ , and from there they descended into increasingly bitter jibes and insults – many of which still sting – until Martin shouted that he was never speaking to Douglas again.

Oh God, why did he say that? Why can’t he just – but it’s Douglas’s _fault_ , and if he likes Simon so much more then why should Martin go out of his way to do anything for him?

That flight was the worst he’s ever been on, though. The _silence_...self imposed but...it hurt not to be talking to Douglas for the whole eight hours. It’s physically painful to consider what seems like the very real possibility of never speaking to Douglas again – of working anywhere other than MJN – but some of Douglas’s choicest words from their argument still ring in his ears.

Everything has gone so _wrong_ , and he can’t decide who he is more angry with – Simon, Douglas, or himself.

0000

Douglas’s sleep is brought to an abrupt end by the shrill beeping of his alarm clock. He tries to reach out to turn it off, gets his arm tangled in the sheets, and succeeds only in knocking it to the floor. The batteries fall out, and he leaves them there, blaming this uncharacteristic clumsiness solely on Martin.

Douglas Richardson is very much a morning person. And, for that matter, an afternoon person. And evening. In fact, he is pretty much a whatever-time-it-pleases-him person, so this groggy, bleary-eyed, reluctant awakening can only be Martin’s doing. It’s Martin’s fault he didn’t get any real sleep last night after all – Martin’s face, tearful and lost, haunted him every time he closed his eyes. He’d phoned Arthur to escort the Captain back to his room as soon as he’d returned to his own, the guilt (for which he also blames Martin) already eating at him by the time he reached the door of the bar.

He really doesn’t understand Martin’s problem, which is the most frustrating part of it all. He has done nothing _wrong_ – good Lord he tried hard enough to be on his very best behaviour (and he can think of no one but Martin he would do this for, not that he will ever admit to that) during the encounter with Simon Crieff the other day didn’t he? And yet that’s where he seems able to trace Martin’s anger from.

He’d made a point of being as pleasant as possible despite his instant dislike of both Simon and his ridiculously garish car. Martin had looked so terrified at the sight of him – like a rabbit caught in headlights, pale and wide eyed then instantly crimson when Simon stepped forward to shake Douglas’s hand.

The man had been...smarmy. Silky and sickening and as different to Martin as it’s possible to be; the patronising way he addressed Martin had raised Douglas’s hackles even before they had started speaking, and inexplicably _protective_ urge coming over him and making him narrow his eyes with dislike. Oh, he knows that the expression on Simon’s face probably appears on his several times an hour, but that’s _different_. It’s...well, it just is. And the first thing Douglas wanted to do was take Simon Crieff down a peg or two, as he knows he is more than capable of doing, but Martin’s face had been the picture of dread, clearly petrified Douglas would do something to show him up in front of his brother.

So he’d bottled the automatic acerbic comments threatening to burst forth and pretended to put up with the man. For that Martin is refusing to speak to him.

He gets heavily out of bed and dumps the alarm clock back on the table, slamming the batteries down next to it.

The worst part, he decides moodily, is not, after all, not knowing what he has done wrong, but that Martin’s hurt expression from yesterday refuses to leave him alone, and despite being unaware of any actual crime, it still makes his insides squirm with an unfamiliar guilt.

0000

Arthur has never been on a quieter flight. He has not even been called up to pass messages between the pilots this time, and when he went to serve their food the atmosphere crackled with all the furious words that neither of them were saying.

Martin is bad tempered and hung over; Douglas is just bad tempered.

Arthur is scared. Given Martin’s threat to leave MJN for a new airline the moment they land, half formed plans keep chasing themselves around his head to somehow delay the flight, or force a diversion, but most of them are so ridiculous even he dismisses them out of hand without any further thought.

What if Martin is serious? What if he really _does_ leave MJN? Is he angry enough for that? Arthur thinks back to guiding Martin, blind drunk, to his room. He hadn’t seemed angry. He’s just seemed very, very sad.

This thought doesn’t make Arthur feel any better.

The problem is, he doesn’t even know what they’re fighting about, and nothing he remembers from the course in Ipswich seems like it could be any help. He would say that Douglas must have done something wrong to hurt Martin this badly – but Douglas seems equally upset but the whole thing.

He’s at a loss. Even the apple juggling isn’t helping now; he hates it when Martin and Douglas argue, and this is the worst he’s ever known it.

‘Mum?’ He says eventually, ‘do you think Martin’s really going to leave?’

‘What? No, of course not,’ Carolyn replies dismissively. She glances up and catches sight of Arthur’s face. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she assures him, ‘they’ll be back to normal by tomorrow, which frankly can’t come soon enough. You being the second most mature person on this plane is more than I can handle.’

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, though, and is unusually patient with Arthur for the remainder of the flight.

It is a mark of Arthur’s distraction that he doesn’t thank her for what he would normally perceive as a compliment.

0000

Several times during their journey back to the UK, Martin opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it before any sound comes out. If Douglas notices his predicament he doesn’t acknowledge it, which Martin can’t decide whether to be irritated by or grateful for – they both present problems.

If he is irritated then that means he _wants_ Douglas to speak to him, and hasn’t he already concluded that the whole point of this is that he’d really rather _not_ listen to what Douglas has to say?

On the other hand, he is determined not to be grateful to Douglas for anything – or amused, or even mildly interested, ever again. If Douglas finds his company so completely undesirable that he would rather be with Simon, why should Martin make any effort?

Again he finds himself running through justifications for his silence, but each time he does he finds his own excuses more feeble than on the previous attempt.

But he hasn’t done anything _wrong_ , it’s Douglas who – it’s Douglas – oh, he doesn’t even know any more. The fact is he _knows_ he’s overreacting, really...but even though he would like nothing more than to swallow his pride and just go back to how things were, it hurts more than it should to think of laughing with Douglas and all the while being aware that he is the second choice. Well – he knows he’s probably much further down than second, ultimately, he’s not _stupid_ , but next to Simon. _Behind_ Simon. Again. It’s too much.

After his fifth glance to the side in as many minutes, he sighs deeply and tries to concentrate on running through the Emergency Procedures in his head to take his mind off things – but he only gets as far as _Captain dons cap_ before he hears Douglas in his head so clear he actually has to look around to make sure the First Officer _hasn’t_ spoken, gasping with laughter at the very idea and suggesting a lipstick inscription as well.

When he gets back to his attic, he immediately tosses his hat aside carelessly, scowling as though it has personally offended him – as though the entire thing is its fault.

It lands – quite by accident – in the bin, but Martin doesn’t make any move to retrieve it.

0000

Arthur spends his entire evening on the internet, scrolling through pages and pages of websites until his eyes itch and the intervals between his suppressed yawns become shorter and shorter.

He has already had quite enough of Martin and Douglas fighting – it unsettles him something terrible, and he is determined to do something about it but has very little idea where to start. So he has resorted to searching through an endless list of mostly useless information which he nevertheless places an enormous amount of faith in. Under ordinary circumstances, if he were confused about something (which in fairness he concedes happens quite often) his first port of call would be Carolyn – but she is still maintaining that the whole thing will blow over in no time (though Arthur isn’t so sure) and his second stop would be the pilots themselves, which he doesn’t think would be very helpful right now.

He takes off his glasses (he doesn’t need them – he just thinks they make him look more intelligent) to rub his eyes and read through the responses to his post on ask.com. The vast majority are unhelpful at best, one or two make him turn faintly pink and several of seem to contain links to websites that are nothing to do with the matter at hand, along with exclamations about various money-making schemes he finds himself tempted to try, but thinks Carolyn probably wouldn’t allow.

He ignores the suggestion of locking them in a room together until they sort themselves out, reasoning that it is not all that different to being on the plane, which isn’t doing any good so far. The next post contains no attempt at advice but calls him several names he’s sure his mother would not like him to repeat.

Three more after that are in much the same tone, the fourth is spam (he wonders briefly why it’s called that, then dismisses the thought) and the fifth tells him he ought to mind his own business and leave them to it. The sixth and seventh have merit, though. He considers them, then prints both off for perusal later, tucking the sheets inside _Body Language For Dummies_ – again, it doesn’t really help, it being open beside him just adds to the atmosphere of serious research.

In the end, he falls asleep on top of all his hard work and when Carolyn wakes him in the morning he’s still exhausted, but he doesn’t regret it.

He _will_ sort this out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't like this chapter myself, but I tried so many different ways of doing it and none of them seemed to work. I hope it will do.  
> I'm going camping on Saturday and won't be back until 14th August, so I'll apologise in advance for the wait (and the awfulness of this chapter)!

‘What – were – you – _thinking_?’ Carolyn demands in a dangerously low voice, pacing in front of Arthur, who shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing a guilty red,

‘I –’

‘Never mind. I’ll _tell_ you what you were thinking. Nothing. Nothing is what you were thinking. Or at least I hope to God it was, because if you actually paused to consider what you were doing and went ahead with it anyway then you’re even more of an idiot than I took you for to begin with. What on Earth possessed you to do something so stupid?’

‘But Mum, I didn’t know he was allergic!’ Arthur protests earnestly, ‘I wouldn’t have done it if I did, honestly! But – but it was what they told me to do, they said it would stop Douglas and Skip arguing!’

‘Who is ‘they’? And how exactly was this supposed to result in some sort of miraculous reconciliation? Do you even know what could have _happened_?’

‘The people on the internet,’ Arthur sniffs tearfully. ‘They said that if Skipper and Douglas had a common enemy they would forget about being angry with each other, and I couldn’t really think of anything else because they get annoyed with me all the time so I didn’t think that would really work, and then when I passed the flowerbeds on the way in –’

‘If those people had told you jumping out of the plane over the Atlantic would get Martin and Douglas back on speaking terms, would you have done it?’ Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but Carolyn cuts him off quickly, ‘no, don’t answer that. For future reference the correct response is _no_. Do try and remember,’ she pauses, then when he doesn’t reply, ‘Arthur?’

‘You told me not to answer!’

Carolyn rolls her eyes and huffs, some of the anger draining away at the sight of her son’s pleading face, ‘Arthur, do you know what anaphylactic shock is?’ She asks, in a considerably gentler tone. Arthur briefly considers answering with a confident _yes_ , just to prove a point, and begins to do just that, then changes his mind halfway through.

‘Ye...no,’ he admits reluctantly, ‘is it bad?’

‘It’s very, very bad,’ Carolyn assures him seriously, ‘if Martin had been stung, that’s what could have happened. He could have died,’

Arthur’s eyes widen in horror, ‘no!’ he exclaims, ‘no, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have – I’m sorry Mum, honestly I wouldn’t have, _really_ –’

‘I know,’ she cuts him off truthfully, ‘I’m just trying to make you realise why this is a big deal.’

‘I get it,’ Arthur replies sullenly, ‘is Skip going to be okay?’

‘He’ll be fine. Just promise me you aren’t going to follow any more of these ridiculous schemes,’

‘I promise,’ he hangs his head shamefully, though he is mentally ticking off which of the list of ideas he has made might count as ridiculous, and which he might still be able to get away with.

0000

Arthur spends most of the night writing the note, short as it turns out to be. He isn’t very good at mimicking Douglas’s handwriting, and he just can’t seem to get the wording right.

In the end he gives up, and chooses the one with the smallest number of scribbling-out on it to leave on Martin’s desk.

 _Dear Martin_ , it says,

 _I’m really sorry about what happened and about what I said. I was being an idiot and I didn’t mean any of it. Please forgive me and start talking to me again._

 _From Douglas._

 _PS: Arthur says he’s really sorry too, about the bees. He was only trying to help and he didn’t know about anafalactick shock or he wouldn’t have done it, really._

It is no surprise when he finds it in the bin later that day.

0000

Threatening a drinks ban until they start talking again doesn’t work either, even when Arthur steals the thermos flasks both pilots take to bringing in to work.

0000

Along the same lines, Arthur hides Martin’s hat with the promise to return it if he apologises to Douglas, but as it turns out, beneath the Captain’s seat of the aeroplane is not the most subtle place he could have chosen.

0000

If he can’t make them band together _against_ something, Arthur reasons as he adjusts the newly made hat on his head, he can at least try and unite them _for_ something.

Douglas laughs uproariously at his jokes, and participates with falsified enthusiasm in the game of charades Arthur suggests.

Martin ignores both of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait, I was away for five weeks and my muse wandered off when I got back...
> 
> I have two chapters to make up for it though!

Carolyn is at a loss.  
   
Really, it’s none of her business. Martin and Douglas can speak or not speak, play their stupid games or ignore each other completely; it really doesn’t matter to her. Why should it? They are doing their jobs, and probably more professionally than usual now they are no longer distracted by their silly word games.  
   
So why does she find herself wishing so hard that they would just forget about whatever nonsense they’re arguing over and move on? Arthur has been struggling for a fortnight with increasingly desperate attempts to force them back on the same page, and with each failed plan her own disappointment equals her son’s.  
   
It’s unsettling. When did she come to care for the pilots this much? What should it matter to _her_ whether or not Martin is smiling so long as he doesn’t crash the plane? Why should it affect her if Douglas is actually being quiet for once?  
   
And yet it _does_ affect her, more the longer it goes on. It’s just unnatural that the two of them should go for so much time without speaking to each other – and she really can’t afford to lose Martin as Captain, quite literally. What can she do though? She has tried telling the pair of them to grow up, but Douglas just ignored her and Martin’s face had only cracked her own resolve a little bit more. She has tried threatening them, asking them, ordering them – everything short of pleading with them, and nothing has worked.  
   
If she finds herself crossing her fingers a little tighter with each new attempt of Arthur’s, she gives up telling herself it’s only because she’s afraid he might bankrupt her in the process. Eventually she accepts the fact that maybe, somehow, the happiness of her pilots has managed to connect itself to her own peace of mind. Not that she would ever admit that to them.  
   
0000  
   
The reality of Martin’s situation hits him at the strangest of times. Often, he actually forgets about the argument and has his mouth half open to tell Douglas something or suggest a new game before he realises.  
   
Seventeen days after the fight, twelve after the bee debacle and seven after Arthur stopped making their drinks, Martin is passing by the entertainment aisle of the supermarket when it happens again.  
   
There’s a shelf full of cheap books aimed mostly at teenage girls, stacked haphazardly and lopsided. One has been put back so it partly conceals the one behind it, and Martin can’t make out the whole title. What he can see reads _New Moo_.  
   
He has laughed, moved the foremost book to see the rest of the title and resolved to tell Douglas that he’s found another contender for a book that sounds better with the final letter removed by the time he remembers that the pair of them aren’t speaking.  
   
He leaves the shop with a heavier heart and a lighter wallet than when he entered it, seriously considering just giving in and saying sorry. He’s half forgotten most of what was said anyway, and he _misses_ Douglas, he really does miss the jokes and the competitions and the bets that he _always_ loses. He misses the sound of Douglas’s _voice_ , he wants to hear his co-pilot _laugh_ again, he wants to be the one to cause it, and he doesn’t even much matter whether it’s deliberate or just at his expense. He just wants to go back to how things were.  
   
He doesn’t want to leave MJN. The thought, even now, makes his heart twist painfully, but it’s difficult to trace just when this attachment grew to be so strong. He can’t bring himself to actually make any applications because he can’t stomach the thought of working anywhere else, but at the same time he knows perfectly well that he can’t keep going how things are.  
   
0000  
   
Douglas has never done well with silence. It is perhaps the one thing he isn’t very good at, and of course it had to be Martin who proved it to him.  
   
And he can’t even tell him. Because he will _not_ be the first one to speak. He is not going to apologise, he has nothing to apologise for, he’s been through this a million and one times, he is _not_ the one in the wrong here!  
   
The more indignant his protests become, the more he sees how feeble they actually are.  
   
He doesn’t realise quite how much the strain is showing until his daughter points it out to him. When he picks her up for the day he smiles and swings her into his arms with a laugh and a sweet, which she takes happily enough, until she catches sight of his face properly for the first time.  
   
‘What’s wrong Daddy?’ she asks innocently, frowning her confusion. ‘You look all sad.’  
   
He brushes it off and tells her it’s nothing, and she seems to forget for an hour or so.  
   
‘Can you tell me a story?’  
   
‘What kind of story?’ He has _hundreds_ of stories – not all of them suitable for his daughter’s ears, but nevertheless, plenty of tales (not all exaggerations) of mischief and adventure at her age, of medical school or Air England, or –  
   
‘One about an _aeroplane_!’ she exclaims, spreading her arms and running in circles, making _whooshing_ sounds and grinning widely, showing a newly made gap in her teeth.  
   
‘ _Well_ ,’ Douglas begins proudly. ‘What about the time at Air England when –’  
   
‘Not there, Daddy!’ she squeals, ‘one with Arthur and Carolyn and Martin! They’re funny. I like Arthur. And Martin. Carolyn is _scary_!’  
   
Douglas tries to stop his face from falling, too late, as a heavy weight settles over his chest. For some reason, even though he is still determinedly furious with the man, the thought of Martin – it – well – it aches. A strange, dull, empty sort of ache that won’t go away no matter how many times he tells himself it’s ridiculous.  
   
‘Oh, I can’t think of any of those,’ he lies,  
   
‘But Daddy –!’ she pouts, and Douglas shakes his head firmly.  
   
‘Not now.’  
   
She crosses her arms and glares angrily at him.  
   
For once, he concedes it’s maybe less than he deserves.  
 


	5. Chapter 5

Almost a month after the disastrous bee incident (and three weeks after Martin is finally able to put his hat on again without wincing with pain – he had tripped in his haste to get away from the offending insect), Arthur, in a fit of uncharacteristic spite, has come to a decision.  
   
He hates Texas.  
   
Not only is it thoroughly confusing to have a place called Paris with no French people and the conspicuous lack of an Eiffel Tower, but Flying Tigers Airport turns out to be nothing like he expected it to be either. He can’t help but feel rather let down by the whole thing.  
   
On top of this, it seems none of the supposedly foolproof advice he has been following is quite as wise as he’s been led to believe. Martin and Douglas are still not speaking; if anything the atmosphere in the cockpit has only become chillier as the days pass by. When they _have_ to talk to each other, during safety checks and the like, it’s in clipped, professional tones which leave no room for conversation – Douglas has not even let slip a single joke.  
   
 ‘This is stupid,’ he announces loudly, tossing the crumpled list of failed ideas into the bin as he passes the reception desk of the hotel.  
   
‘ _You’re_ stupid!’  
   
‘Brandon, be quiet, Mommy’s trying to book us a room.’  
   
Arthur glances around and sees a boy of no more than six, with dark hair that flops over into his eyes and a moody pout set on his face, clinging onto his mother’s hand as she speaks to the receptionist. The boy sticks his tongue out, so Arthur does the same.  
   
‘ _Mommy_!’ the boy shrieks, ‘Mommy that man stuck his tongue out at me!’  
   
‘Be _quiet_ Brandon, I’m sure he didn’t. I’m sorry about him,’ she adds, looking up at Arthur with a polite smile, ‘he’s just over-excited,’  
   
‘But he _did,_ Mommy, he did I saw him, _he did_!’ Brandon stamps his foot petulantly and glares at Arthur with renewed vigour, tugging insistently on his mother’s arm.  
   
‘Will you stop that?’ she snaps. ‘Go over there and sit down until I’m finished will you? No – _there_ ,’ she points to the line of chairs pushed against the wall. Brandon, who had been heading towards the door, reluctantly changes course and stomps across the room, throwing himself into a chair and folding his arms. ‘Right, now be good until I’ve got this sorted, alright?’ With an exasperated sigh, she turns back to the receptionist. Brandon spots Arthur still watching him and pokes his tongue out again.  
   
‘You _did_ ,’ he insists.  
   
‘You did first,’ Arthur counters immediately, while Brandon scuffs the floor with his toes, scowling at Arthur through his unruly mop of hair.  
   
‘What’s stupid anyway?’ He asks, curiosity seeming to overcome his determination to be in a bad mood.  
   
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Arthur replies evasively, trying to look wise.  
   
‘Bet I would,’ Brandon argues,  
   
‘Bet you wouldn’t,’ Arthur’s tone matches Brandon’s exactly. He glances at the boy’s mother, who is shaking her head in frustration and jabbing her finger at something on the computer screen.  
   
‘I can _read_ ,’ Brandon says. ‘I _know_ things,’  
   
‘So can I; I read a whole book last year,’ Arthur responds proudly, puffing out his chest and smiling his best _intelligent_ smile, ‘I bet _you’ve_ never read a whole book.’  
   
‘Bet I have,’  
   
‘Haven’t,’  
   
‘Have,’  
   
‘Haven’t,’  
   
‘Have so times infinity!’ Brandon exclaims, leaning forward as he shouts and then slumping back in his seat triumphantly, ignoring his mother’s reprimands. ‘I want to know what’s stupid.’  
   
Arthur opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again as he thinks better of it.  
   
‘You look like a fish,’ Brandon tells him abruptly.  
   
‘I do not,’  
   
‘You do so, my Daddy had a fish and it did that all the time!’ To emphasise his point, Brandon widens his eyes, opening and closing his mouth and waving his arms vaguely at the side of him in a hazy impression of a goldfish. ‘Like that! Daddy had lots of fish. But he took them all away when he left.’ Some of the childish petulance leaks away from Brandon’s face to be replaced by a sadness several years too old for his features. ‘Mommy says he’s not allowed to come back,’ he admits quietly. Arthur sits next to him, uncertain how to deal with this sudden melancholy but wanting to say something to comfort the little boy; he remembers feeling like this when his own father left.  
   
‘Maybe he’ll come back,’ he says hopefully, but Brandon shakes his head.  
   
‘Mommy doesn’t want him to. They shouted a lot and I think he said bad things.’  
   
‘My Mum and Dad split up,’ Arthur offers, ‘it’s not that bad in the end. My Mum got his aeroplane.’  
   
‘ _Really_?’ Brandon looks astonished, ‘do you think my Mommy’ll get one too? Is it big? Does she fly it? Or do you? Can _I_ have a go?’  
   
‘I don’t think Skipper would let you,’ Arthur replies reasonably, ‘he’s a bit touchy on that sort of thing.’  
   
‘Aww, but that’s not fair! Who’s Skipper?’  
   
‘He’s the Captain,’ Arthur explains proudly, ‘he’s the one who flies the plane. Well, him and Douglas.’  
   
‘But...what do you do? Don’t you ever get a go?’ His own family forgotten, Brandon’s eyes are shining with interest now, and Arthur grins at the six-year-old’s enthusiasm.  
   
‘Not to fly it, but I get to go all over with them anyway, so it’s brilliant – you should get your Mum to go on holiday sometime, tell her to book MJN Air if she does and you can see Gertie!’  
   
‘Gertie?’  
   
‘The plane,’  
   
‘Your plane has a _name_?’  
   
‘Well it’s really Golf-Echo...something. But we just call her Gertie.’  
   
‘ _Cool_...’ Brandon breathes. His mother is now perusing a leaflet and drumming her fingers on the desk as she waits for the receptionist to return from wherever he’s disappeared to. Neither Brandon nor Arthur pays her much attention. ‘So do you get to _watch_ them fly then?’  
   
‘Oh yeah, all the time,’ Arthur enthuses, ‘and we play all sorts of games – well, normally we do anyway...not at the moment...’ Brandon’s ears perk up instantly in recognition of the miserable tone Arthur’s voice sinks into, questions about what sort of games he means fading from his mind as a sympathetic look crosses his face.  
   
‘What happened?’ he asks seriously,  
   
‘Skipper and Douglas are having a fight,’ Arthur says. ‘They won’t talk anymore. I’ve been trying to get them to make up, but it’s not working.’  
   
‘Is that what’s stupid?’ Brandon’s tone is suddenly shrewd, and Arthur nods. ‘You should make them say sorry,’ he advises, ‘that’s what Mommy did when I fought with Tom. I told Mommy to say sorry to Daddy though, but she said no.’  
   
‘I tried that,’ Arthur shakes his head,  
   
 ‘What are they fighting about?’  
   
‘Nothing,’ Arthur replies, though he doesn’t know how much of the truth that is. It’s the most he knows – after everything he’s been able to gather about it, that’s what it seems like.  
   
‘They should kiss each other,’ Brandon advises coolly, and Arthur splutters in shock,

‘ _What_?!’ he exclaims – Skipper and Douglas? But they – but – that’s just – _Skipper and Douglas_?  
   
‘My Mommy says _they_ should kiss each other,’ Brandon says, pointing at the muted TV mounted on a bracket in the corner of the ceiling, currently broadcasting what looks like a middle-aged man and woman shouting at one another at the tops of their voices, though what they’re saying Arthur has no idea. ‘She likes that show. She says they should kiss each other because they’re always fighting about nothing, and people who fight about nothing want to kiss each other.’  
   
‘Oh,’ says Arthur uncertainly, frowning at the TV. Then, ‘ _OH_!’  
 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now officially a University student!!
> 
> ...Which means on top of still not owning Cabin Pressure, I also have no money and no time. Swings and roundabouts.

On the journey back to Fitton, Arthur makes excuses to be in the flight deck as often as possible; Martin and Douglas are too intent on ignoring one another to really notice his presence. Or actually, to be more accurate, _pretending_ to ignore one another, because Arthur sees Martin glance at Douglas no less than twenty three times. On each occasion he seems to be on the verge of saying something before thinking the better of it. Douglas manages an impressive twenty seven.  
   
Carolyn almost asks Arthur what he’s doing, but she too eventually decides to keep quiet. So long as he isn’t up to anything dangerous this time, she really doesn’t want to know.  
   
 _Skipper and Douglas_.  
   
 _Douglas and Skipper_.  
   
The more Arthur thinks about it, the more it seems to make sense. He’s never seen Skip with a girlfriend – or a boyfriend, for that matter – and every time one of Douglas’s numerous successes is brought up (none of which, Arthur notes curiously, ever seem to be dated after his now not so recent divorce), Skip blushes furiously.  
   
Or at least, he used to. When they were talking. Now it’s just frosty silences and half-hidden glances, which Arthur still can’t really fathom the meaning of despite his new-found knowledge. If Skipper and Douglas fancy each other, why don’t they just say so? If they really want to kiss each other, then why won’t they even speak? In his experience there’s usually quite a lot of talking before the kissing stage is reached, so it seems like the only way to accomplish the pilots’ desire is to get over this inexplicable silence first.  
   
Which means Arthur needs to get to the bottom of the original argument once and for all.  
   
00000  
   
Back in Fitton Arthur deliberately dawdles while cleaning up, dragging out the hoovering and lingering behind well after everyone else has left the plane, trying to find odd jobs to do to keep himself occupied. He needs to talk to one of the pilots without the other present, and since Douglas always leaves at the first opportunity it seems easiest to catch Martin alone while he stays to do the paperwork.  
   
He waits until he is sure, _absolutely sure_ , that Douglas has left, and then gives it another ten minutes to be on the safe side.  
   
Carolyn is in her office. Martin, as predicted, is still at his desk. Arthur approaches him warily, clearing his throat. He has gone through this conversation so many times in his head he’s learnt it all by heart and then forgotten it again; this is his last chance. His very last chance to get the pilots back on speaking terms; after all his failed attempts and all the awkward flights of acting mediator between the two of them…this is it.  
   
‘Umm…Skip?’ Arthur begins tentatively, edging into the room and biting his lip. Martin glances up distractedly. Arthur notices for the first time how truly _tired_ Martin has started to look; he has dark bags under his eyes and his face looks drawn and haggard. Arthur’s sense of urgency increases.  
   
‘What is it Arthur?’  
   
‘I umm…I just…well I wondered if…’ he trails off. There’s a long pause, during which Martin’s gaze flickers only briefly back down to the papers in front of him, a frown finding its way absently onto his features.  
   
‘Arthur? What’s wrong?’  
   
‘What happened with you and Douglas?’ Arthur asks abruptly, spitting the words out slightly breathlessly. Martin sighs and puts his pen down, leaning back in his chair and dragging a hand down his face.  
   
‘It…doesn’t matter,’ he replies eventually, trying to ignore the twisting sensation in his gut at the mere sound of his First Officer’s name. For goodness sake can’t he just forget the man and move on? It’s…this isn’t _fair_. It’s supposed to get easier. If he focuses on being angry it’s supposed to get _easier_ to forget the things he likes about Douglas. He’s meant to be able to concentrate on the belittling put downs and the self-satisfied smirk and the fact that Douglas prefers _Simon_. Instead he’s finding those things receding into the distance while all he can think about is Douglas’s smile; his eyes glinting with something between amusement and mischief, his humour, his voice…  
   
‘You see Skip, I think it _does_ matter,’ Arthur replies firmly. He stands in front of Martin’s desk with his hands on his hips and assumes his very best stern expression. ‘Nobody fights for this long because it doesn’t matter.’  
   
‘It’s complicated,’ Martin supplies hopefully. _And really, it’s not all put-downs is it? What about all those times Douglas has prodded Martin in the right direction, or helped him, or…what about the Seven Dwarves and the lipstick inscription and the smoke filled fuselage and the landing in St Petersburg? What about…what about…_  
   
‘Please,’ Arthur says, the firmness leaking away to be replaced by a kind of quiet desperation, ‘please, I’m trying to help.’  
   
‘It’s – look – it really doesn’t matter.’ He doesn’t want to discuss this with Arthur. He doesn’t want to discuss this with anyone. _What does it matter if every once in a while Douglas accidently lets something halfway decent slip out of his mouth? What about the overwhelming majority of the time when it’s just ridicule and scorn? What about the lemon and the French and the betting and the deadly “I”s?_  
   
‘If it doesn’t matter then you should make up,’ Arthur announces boldly.  
   
‘It’s not that simple,’ Martin answers before he can stop himself. ‘It’s not that – look, Arthur, I’m sorry, but it’s none of your business –’  
   
‘It _is_ my business Skip! I’ve been passing messages between you two for weeks and I don’t even know why! And Mum’s worried even though I know she’s not going to say anything and you look tired and Douglas looks sad and it _does_ matter!’  
   
Martin closes his eyes and leans forward to put his head in his hands. When did it all get this out of control? When did one stupid little argument turn into…this? Why can’t he just swallow his pride for once and accept that, so what? So Douglas likes Simon. Big deal. Martin should never have expected any different, just because he’s got _proof_ now…  
   
‘It was stupid,’ he mutters eventually, not looking up. He hears a chair scraping along the floor, then Arthur sitting in it. He risks one quick peek towards the steward, who has such an expression of concern on his face that a lump forms in Martin’s throat and he has to struggle to swallow it down again.  
   
‘I know it was,’ says Arthur wisely, ‘that’s why you need to make up.’  
   
‘The thing is…’ he stops and sighs. Speaking to the desk, he continues with his eyes squeezed shut and firmly ignoring the hot prickling sensation behind them. ‘The thing is, Douglas doesn’t want to make up,’ he finishes eventually.  
   
‘How do you know that?’  
   
‘He just…I know he doesn’t. Why would he?’ Martin asks miserably. He doesn’t dare speak to Douglas, he realises, because he knows Douglas doesn’t want to speak to him. After how childish he’s been is it any wonder Douglas favours his brother?  
   
‘Aww, don’t say that! Of course he wants to talk to you. He nearly did on the flight today, I saw him.’  
   
‘You what?’ Martin’s head snaps up. His eyes look oddly wet, which Arthur ignores, though more in favour of pressing his point than out of tact.  
   
‘Well, you know how you kept looking at him and opening your mouth to say something?’ Martin splutters in response, ‘the thing is Skip, he was doing the same!’  
   
‘But…but…’ Martin looks thoroughly at a loss now. ‘But why would he?’  
   
‘Well because he likes you of course!’  
   
Martin laughs bitterly, ‘no he doesn’t, Arthur. If he likes anyone it’s Simon.’  
   
‘Simon – your brother Simon?’  
   
‘Yes.’  
   
‘But…what makes you think that? Why would he like Simon but not you?’  
   
‘Why _wouldn’t_ he?’ Martin scoffs.  
   
‘What are you talking about?’ Arthur exclaims, completely nonplussed, ‘can’t he like both of you?’  
   
‘He could, but he doesn’t.’  
   
‘But…’ Arthur’s objection fades away before he even voices it. How can he protest if he doesn’t even know what he’s protesting about? He’s gathering his resolve for another stab at investigation when Martin speaks again.  
   
‘You remember when my van broke down?’ he says. Arthur nods. ‘Simon gave me a lift here.’ Arthur did actually meet him, and found him a little too much like his own father for comfort, but doesn’t mention this. ‘Douglas was…nice to him, Arthur.’ He says it with the tone of a man making a terrible confession, and looks away again.  
   
‘Shouldn’t he be?’  
   
‘He’s never nice to _me_!’  
   
‘Yeah, but…you’re his friend. He doesn’t have to be nice to you.’  
   
‘What?’ Martin asks reluctantly, unable to follow Arthur’s logic.  
   
‘Well Mum’s nicer to the customers than she is to the rest of us, isn’t she?’ Arthur replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Most of the time, anyway. Isn’t there something about first impressions that means you’re supposed to be more polite to strangers than people you know?’  
   
For a second, treacherous hope glimmers faintly in Martin’s chest. Could _Arthur_ , of all people…? But no. Since when does Douglas care about first impressions? It doesn’t matter what people think of him, he can charm whatever he likes out of whoever he likes, _whenever_ he likes.  
   
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Martin says feebly. ‘Trust me, I know what happened.’  
   
‘But Skip –’  
   
‘No,’ Martin interrupts. He hopes Arthur doesn’t notice how much he’s blinking. ‘Thanks, Arthur, really, but…no. I know what I saw.’  And he daren’t, he really daren’t get his hopes up. It doesn’t make a difference what Arthur says or thinks or tries. Nothing is going to change the fact that every time Martin sets eyes on Douglas it’s only going to ache a little more with the memory of what he’s lost, and the thought of what he might be able to have, if he was Simon. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s not even angry anymore, but still as incapable as ever of doing anything to change how things are. It’s his fault. It’s been his fault all along, but what does it matter anymore? The fact is the argument has only made it more obvious than ever that he’s been chasing an impossible dream.  
   
‘But…’  
   
‘Arthur, please.’  
   
Arthur opens his mouth, hesitates, and then closes it. He nods decisively; the conversation hasn’t actually been a _total_ waste. If he can just…maybe if…  
   
He needs to talk to Douglas. One last step in his very _last_ chance to sort this out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the (probably) penultimate chapter. I'm very sorry for the wait! Thank you for your patience.

Catching Douglas on his own turns out to be much harder than catching Martin, as he invariably arrives after and leaves before the Captain. Arthur resorts to lurking in the car park ready to ambush him as soon as he turns up. He fidgets and paces for almost half an hour before he sees the Lexus swing into the car park, and hurries over to it, already speaking before the door is even open.  
   
‘Skipper’s jealous of his brother,’ he announces without preamble. If he is expecting this to be the magic phrase to solve the whole problem, he is sadly disappointed.  
   
‘Yes, Arthur; ungifted with wisdom from certain courses in Ipswich though I may be, the thought had occurred to me,’ Douglas replies drily, casually locking the car and striding away without sparing much more than a glance for Arthur. He doesn’t want to talk about Martin, and doesn’t want to acknowledge the sharp pang he feels – part irritation, part regret – every time the Captain’s name is mentioned.  
   
Arthur mouths wordlessly for a second, then stumbles over his inadequate explanation, ‘well…he…’ he pauses to collect his scattered thoughts. ‘He’s _really_ jealous of him.’  
   
‘Is he now?’ asks Douglas, feigning complete indifference rather well. Of course Martin is jealous of his brother. Martin is jealous of just about everyone. _And for God’s_ sake _don’t start feeling guilty about that again. It’s hardly your fault_.  
   
‘Yeah!’ Arthur exclaims, hurrying to keep up with Douglas and then – to Douglas’s surprise – jumping in front of him to block his path. ‘Please listen to me, Douglas,’ he begs, in an abnormally sincere voice. Douglas sighs and closes his eyes briefly.  
   
‘Can I listen to you indoors?’ he asks, lifting his gaze significantly towards the heavy black clouds gathering overhead. Arthur glances back nervously and shakes his head.  
   
‘No…umm…I mean…I wanted to talk to you without…without…anyone else.’  
   
Intrigued against his will, Douglas stops walking and folds his arms. ‘Well make it quick, I have no desire to fly to Barbados soaked to the skin.’  
   
‘Well – that’s it, really,’ Arthur says, looking thoroughly confused. ‘Skipper’s jealous of his brother. That’s – well, that’s why he’s angry.’ Douglas raises his eyebrows, trying to ignore the sinking feeling gradually overtaking him. He had hoped Arthur would have given up these attempts by now, and he’s running out of excuses for his continued silence.  
   
‘And why, pray tell, should Sir’s problems with his insufferable brother affect his opinion of me?’ He hopes fervently that his tone comes out disdainful, rather than curious. He isn’t entirely sure it does.  
   
At Douglas’s words, though, Arthur’s mouth falls open and his eyes widen comically. He looks…if Douglas didn’t know any better, which of course he does, he would say Arthur looks nothing short of delighted.  
   
‘Insufferable?’ Arthur repeats hopefully, dumbfounded, ‘did you say insufferable?’  
   
‘Yes,’ Douglas replies slowly, frowning now and at a loss. Surely even Arthur can’t have seen all that much to admire in the man? ‘Don’t tell me, you thought he was _brilliant_?’ To Douglas’s increasing incredulity, Arthur actually shakes his head frantically, a guilty blush rising on his cheeks.  
   
‘No, he was – well I mean of course he was – but I think –’  
   
‘Moving on,’ Douglas supplies. ‘Enlighten me; why the surprise to find me less than enamoured with Sir’s brother?’  
   
‘Because…’ Arthur pauses, struggling with the words. Something between dawning realisation, giddy hope and absolute glee is playing across his features. ‘Because Skipper thinks you like him.’  
   
‘Well, yes,’ Douglas replies moodily, ‘that was sort of the point. Much good it did me.’ He forces the image of Martin’s wounded expression away again. Really it shouldn’t be this difficult. And Arthur now looks…hurt. His frown deepens and the uncomfortable feeling of having missed something vitally important tightens his chest.  
   
‘What do you mean?’ Arthur asks,  
   
‘I mean, I should hope Martin thinks I like his brother. I hope my acting skills haven’t degraded so far I can’t even manage to fool _him_. The puffed up little prince turned up in that ridiculous car with Martin looking frankly like he was about to face a firing squad and I decided I’d do him a good turn,’ Douglas blurts, his voice testy. ‘I was polite and gracious and goodness knows what else and what do I get in return? Over a month of silence. Tell me, how in this narrative am _I_ the one in the wrong?’  
   
Arthur gapes for a good ten seconds before replying.  
   
‘You were nice to him,’ he says, sounding awestruck. ‘But you didn’t like him?’  
   
‘Of course I didn’t.’ He should have known such a ruse would be lost on Arthur, who doesn’t have a deceptive bone in his body.  
   
‘But you didn’t tell Skip that?’  
   
‘Why would I?’ Douglas demands, ‘I wasn’t being nice for _Simon’s_ sake, was I?’  
   
‘Douglas…’ Arthur says, a grin unfurling on his face at only his second ever opportunity to use this phrase, literally trembling in the attempt to contain his excitement. ‘You _clot_!’ It comes out as an echoing shout, and he glances around quickly to check neither Martin nor his mother is approaching.  
   
It’s Douglas’s turn to look taken aback, and not a little ruffled by the exchange.  
   
‘What _are_ you talking about?’  
   
‘He thinks you like him!’ Arthur says, struggling to keep his voice below a shout, relief and joy flooding his chest. ‘Skipper thinks you like Simon!’  
   
‘Yes, so I keep telling you, that was the _point_ ,’ Douglas snaps, by now seriously considering just pushing past Arthur and either confronting Martin himself or – more likely – forgetting this whole conversation ever happened.  
   
‘No – I mean – he thinks you _like_ him,’ Arthur repeats significantly, doing his very best impression of a subtle wink, which apparently involves both eyes. Douglas opens his mouth to say something suitably acidic in reply, then stops himself. _What_ did Arthur just say?  
   
He stares. His chest seems to be swelling to twice normal size; his lungs are constricting his heart – or is his heart constricting his lungs? Something is taking up far more space that it’s entitled to at any rate, but that isn’t hope he’s feeling. Not at all; not in the slightest; it’s _not_. No…no, surely not…  
   
‘Arthur, elaborate,’ he orders, ‘and make it idiot proof. Imagine you’re explaining it to yourself.’  
   
Arthur doesn’t bother to look remotely offended, practically bouncing up and down in his excitement, ‘Skipper’s jealous of his brother because he thinks you _like_ him,’ he explains. Douglas tries not to let the repeated stress on the word _like_ get to him. It’s Arthur, it could mean anything…it certainly doesn’t mean _that_. Of course not. Don’t be stupid. It can’t…Martin can’t…and _he_ doesn’t…that most certainly isn’t an explosion in his chest, no matter how much it feels like one – he _isn’t_ feeling _remotely_ lightheaded…  
   
‘He thinks you prefer Simon to him, Douglas. That’s why he’s not talking to you. He’s not angry, he’s sad. I think he thinks – well –’ Arthur goes red. ‘Well, _you know_. And since he…well I think _he_ likes _you_ , so when he thought you liked Simon then…’ He trails away.  
   
 _Martin_.  
   
Martin jealous, Martin…  
   
But no; this is Arthur. Surely he’s got his wires crossed somewhere? A reluctant, slightly dizzying and determinedly unidentifiable emotion renders Douglas momentarily speechless.  
   
‘Arthur,’ says Douglas eventually, his expression still bemused and doubtful. Arthur’s face falls as he watches Douglas unsuccessfully for any sign of whatever joy or relief he’d been expecting. This is not working out at all the way he hoped. ‘Do you know what you are?’  
   
‘A clot,’ Arthur mumbles dispiritedly. He tried. He tried so hard just to make things better and now…and now neither of them believe him and they won’t talk and they’re never going to make up. Skipper’s going to leave MJN and they’ll both stay sad and –  
   
‘You,’ Douglas says sincerely, in a voice as dramatic as he can muster (which is really quite dramatic, he is Douglas Richardson after all), ‘are _brilliant_.’  
   
Arthur beams, and Douglas actually lets himself follow suit, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay no, sorry, this is _not_ the last chapter. It was supposed to be. But although I've had this planned since the beginning, it was proving very difficult to actually write. Then when I finally got going it ended up much longer than I expected and since you've all been waiting so long and so patiently, I thought I would split it into two, so you can have the first installment a little earlier. :)

Douglas moves in something of a daze into the portakabin, after making Arthur promise not to breathe a word of their conversation to Martin. He hesitates at the door to the room which passes as an office for the two pilots, his hand actually trembling slightly as he reaches out to open it.

‘Douglas?’

‘Hmm?’ Douglas turns his head, hand still on the door. It appears that words have momentarily deserted him; he hovers in indecision. Should he act as though nothing has been said, or confront Martin immediately? Should he ease back into civility before bringing it up; gradually build back across the chasm between them, or jump over it straight away? He isn’t used to this kind of uncertainty and it is more than a little unnerving.

‘Are you okay?’ Arthur asks doubtfully, frowning. He looks worried, and disappointed.

‘Fine – I’m fine,’ Douglas lies. Such a flood of emotions is assaulting him that it’s a struggle to know which to tackle first; which have been simmering for weeks now, or months, and which have only just arisen.

There is disbelief, and doubt. There is no small amount of irritation, although to whom it is directed he isn’t sure. It could as easily be himself as Martin, or Arthur; even Carolyn is not immune. His heart is not thundering so much as fluttering nervously; apprehension plagues his normally rock solid resolve. Something altogether too close to fear for his liking flickers at the edge of his senses.

And then, there is – _God_ , there is hope; such all-consuming, powerful, aching hope that he doesn’t know what to do with it, that it feels like it might burst from his chest, that he doesn’t know if _hope_ is even the right label for it. He’s breathless and dizzy with it, while at the same time something mischievous and sneaky whispers at the back of his mind. He latches onto this; it is familiar territory, and comforting.

Straightening up and taking a deep breath, he sends Arthur away for tea and pushes open the door, determinedly _not_ flinching when Martin’s gaze flickers up to him momentarily. For a split second he sees fury and grief displayed in equal parts across the younger man’s face, before it is carefully blanked again and turned back to the paperwork.

Martin is concentrating so hard on _not looking at Douglas_ that the First Officer is free to study him without fear of his attention being noticed. For the first time in many weeks, Douglas actually allows himself to look _properly_ at Martin, as he takes his seat on the other side of the tiny room.

Martin’s face is turned down. He is leaning low over his desk and writing intently, gripping his pen so hard that his fingers are white, and Douglas can see the tension in his jaw. Has he been this wound up the whole time? He must be _exhausted_. Douglas pushes the uncomfortable squirming of guilt away. It’s not _his_ fault – how could he have known? He was trying to _help_ , for goodness sake.

When Martin flicks his slightly too-long hair out of his eyes, Douglas catches sight of his face; he sees the dark smudges beneath the Captain’s eyes, the drawn greyness of his cheeks, and feels his chest tighten.

He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. Martin jerks his head up, but Douglas looks quickly away. What is he meant to _say_? For someone to whom words usually come as easily as breathing, it is incredibly disconcerting to lose them so suddenly.

_I’m sorry; I was wrong_.

That is the most obvious, of course, but Douglas doesn’t like the taste of that phrase even now, when so much rides on it.

_Your brother is a prick_.

Well, yes, that goes to the root of the problem rather succinctly. But is it too abrupt? Will Martin assume that the attack on his brother is a roundabout way of insulting Martin himself, and go on defence? It seems likely, given all his other insecurities.

_Arthur told me –_

No. Just, no; that makes it sound like he’s trying for deniability, like he’s not actually sincere; almost like an _accusation_. And anyway… _Arthur_ ; it’s still more than likely the steward got it wrong, isn’t it?

Douglas’s heart thuds as though in denial, and he realises just how much he hopes that is _not_ true.  _Please,_ he finds himself thinking reluctantly, _please let Arthur be right just this once_.

‘Tea, Douglas!’ Arthur himself announces, bursting into the room with a wide grin on his face. He looks expectantly between the two pilots, and visibly droops when he sees no change in the tension. Douglas glares at him warningly and to his credit, Arthur remains silent as he hands the drink over, although he can’t hide the crestfallen expression on his face.

Douglas sips his tea thoughtfully as Arthur backs out again, avoiding the sceptical – and reluctantly curious – glance Martin sends in his direction.

This will need some planning.

00000

A little over three hours later, they are halfway through the flight and Douglas is fidgeting. Actually _fidgeting_ ; he taps his foot without realising what he’s doing, until Martin gives it a withering look and he stops. He drums his fingers on his knee, and then clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself. He even bites his lip, until he realises how obvious it is and how ridiculous he must look.

As usual, he has countless plans for sorting this out. Of course he does; he is never without _ideas_. It’s just that this time…he is wary of carrying any of them out. There’s far too much _risk_ involved; personal risk, rather than financial, or legal, or physical.

It would be easiest to just _say_ something; smash down the wall of silence between them with a single blow and deal with the consequences when they come. But what would be the right _something_? What can he say to be sure of the right reaction?

Safer, then, to try and break it down slowly; but what to start with?

Should he actually just swallow his pride and _apologise_ , straight out, no fuss, just _say it_ for God’s sake? Should _he_ say it, or get Arthur to pass the message on? A large part of him would much rather Arthur take on this burden; but then how will Martin believe he is serious if he does that? How will it be any different to the rest of their communication since _that day_?

Douglas shifts in his seat again. He has never felt so frustrated, so stuck; he has never in living memory, _ever_ , not known how to get himself out of a tight situation. With words usually, bribes if necessary; flattery and favours as a last resort. But he treads such a fine line here. Such a dangerously fragile route; one wrong step and he could ruin everything, and Martin really will never speak to him again.

It’s only now that Douglas realises how much that prospect scares him. Up until this moment he’s always been rather assuming that it would all blow over somehow, that Martin would just get over himself and they’d go back to normal. Now, looking at Martin beside him; the coldness in his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders… _now_ , Douglas realises what it would be like if this went on forever. If he never speaks to Martin again; if one or both of them leave MJN; if he never sees Martin’s smile, or hears him insist indignantly that _he_ is the Captain…

If this silence carries on forever…

‘Fictional Captains,’ Douglas announces into the silence.

00000

Martin is tired.

For the past…God, he forgets how long now. If he were to find out it’s been a decade since the argument he would not be surprised…but he has been angry. Angry and jealous and guilty and too damn proud to say a word to change anything, too scared to even try.

And now he is just _tired_. He’s sick of being angry and he’s sick of working so hard to ignore Douglas when really this all spiralled a long way beyond being reasonable weeks ago. He’s exhausted by the effort it takes to _stay_ angry, and wearied by the fear of what will happen – what he might accidentally reveal – if he lets himself stop being so furious and just talk to Douglas.

He arrives later than usual at work because he slept through his alarm, but he has still already made a good start on the paperwork before Douglas arrives.

His insides twist painfully with a mixture of irritation and fondness. His eyes sting suddenly and he blinks back the rising moisture in them. How, after all this, can he still feel this way? Why can’t he just _let go_? If he ever had a chance in the first place it is long gone now, and clinging to some stupid fantasy like an infatuated teenage girl is not going to help matters. Douglas has made his decision; he has made his preference perfectly clear. Martin feels heavy with the weight of trying to move on.

When Douglas walks into the office, Martin tenses. It’s as if his feelings are fluid, flowing through every part of him, their burden dragging him down until he sees their object, and they solidify into ice. He grits his teeth and grips his pen unnecessarily hard, peering with unwonted intensity at the pages before him.

He can’t concentrate now. The words swim fuzzily on the paper and though he carries on writing, he barely registers what he says. He is listening.

Douglas moves across the room and sits down at his desk, only a few feet away from Martin’s. There is silence for several moments. Martin jerks his head to move his hair out of his eyes – he really should get it cut, he thinks absently – and catches sight of Douglas as he does.

He looks…different. Sort of…well…if it were anyone else, Martin would think _nervous_ , but he knows Douglas better than that. Doesn’t he?

There’s a slight sound – Martin can’t place it – a throat clearing or the beginning of a word – and his head snaps up automatically. For a moment hope surges through him and he can’t help but imagine Douglas is about to speak. About to speak _to him_ , not through Arthur – about to apologise or explain or even just insult him, he doesn’t _care_ , he just wants Douglas to talk.

But he doesn’t, and Martin refocuses on his work as Douglas looks away, hoping that the heat he can feel rising in his cheeks isn’t too obvious.

00000

If it is even possible, the flight starts out more painful than any Martin has endured since he imposed this silence on them. Because yes, he admits to himself furiously, _yes_ , he imposed it. _He_ is the one who said he would never speak to Douglas again. _He_ is the one who got angry first, who snapped at a perfectly innocuous question, who overreacted so childishly to a completely reasonable interaction between a pair of strangers. What does it matter that his anger was Douglas’s fault? That his jealousy was because of Simon? He’s the one who did this.

He just wishes he had the courage to _un_ do it.

Douglas is restless, it seems, and Martin wonders wildly if something has happened that he doesn’t know about.

_Maybe_ , thinks a part of him in a flash of blinding hope, _maybe Arthur was right_!

Another, more realistic part, thinks with an equally strong surge of fear that perhaps Douglas has actually _resigned_ and is leaving MJN; perhaps Carolyn has for some reason insisted he be the one to tell Martin?

Perhaps he is going to tell _Martin_ that _he_ has to leave. After all, Douglas has been here longer – he’s the better pilot –

Or maybe he’s just bored and doesn’t want to be stuck in this stupid plane (Martin instantly feels guilty and sends out a silent apology to GERTI) with him anymore.

He should ask him. Martin should just open his mouth and _ask_ Douglas what’s wrong.

No; he should remain silent. He should act like nothing has changed.

Except _everything_ has changed, hasn’t it? That’s the _problem_.

He should call Arthur, and get _Arthur_ to ask.

No, that would be cruel.

He should ask _Carolyn_ –

No, that would be stupid.

The flight is halfway over, and Martin patience is fast approaching breaking point, when he hears Douglas say something.

He doesn’t hear what it is. He just hears that _voice_ , and it isn’t angry; it isn’t cold; it isn’t derisive; it isn’t taking a detour through Arthur to get to him.

It’s just _Douglas’s voice_.

Speaking to him.

_Douglas is speaking to him_.

He spins around in his seat, moving so fast he cricks his neck, and _stares_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it that whenever I write anything, the last chapter is _always_ at least twice as long as I had planned?! This chapter actually constitutes over a quarter of the length of the entire story, but I got it written a lot faster than I expected; once I got started, I just couldn't stop. I hope you enjoy it, sorry for the inexcusably long waits, and thank you so much for your patience. :)

‘Fictional Captains.’

_Well, that got his attention._

The trouble is; Douglas has no idea how to proceed from here. His heart is racing, and if he were prone to such things his hands would feel distinctly clammy. But he’s not, so they aren’t.

He wipes them surreptitiously on his trousers just in case.

Martin is staring at him with a look of complete astonishment on his face. His eyes are wide; somewhere between suspicion, fear, and stunned disbelief.

Should he say it now?

_I’m sorry_.

The words die in his throat.

Should he draw attention to it? Should he just go on as normal? The _old_ normal, the one he is trying so hard to get back?

_Say something_.

His plea is silent, but he is still irritated when Martin doesn’t comply. At this point, Douglas is extremely grateful for the autopilot, as neither of them is paying all that much attention to flying anymore.

Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.

Perhaps now isn’t the time, or the place.

_Perhaps he is too late_.

What if that is why Martin isn’t replying? Maybe it isn’t shock; maybe Douglas has just left this too late and things are damaged beyond all repair.

Martin’s mouth works as if to say something, but no sound comes out.

_I’m sorry._

_I forgive you._

_Forgive_ me _._

_It’s Simon’s fault; my fault; your fault; nobody’s fault._

_Did Arthur speak to you, too?_

_Please say something._

_I’m_ sorry.

Douglas isn’t sure if these are his own thoughts, or thoughts he hopes Martin is having. Either way they are so loud it’s a wonder Martin can’t actually hear them.

‘Jack Sparrow,’ says Douglas, somewhat surprised to find his voice not only working, but perfectly steady and natural. He turns away from Martin, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. His composure is truly impressive; none of his inner turmoil shows on his face, though he is sure it must.

Martin still doesn’t speak, but he at least moves now, shifting his gaze finally away from Douglas and fixing it on the horizon. Douglas watches out of the corner of his eye; Martin’s breathing is almost _too_ steady, too slow; he is trying too hard to control it. Douglas doesn’t allow himself to hope – it could be a sign of anger as much as of anything else.

‘Jack Harkness,’ Douglas suggests coolly. Then, ‘they like their Jacks don’t they? James Hook.’

Martin opens his mouth slowly, warily. Douglas can _see_ his name forming on the Captain’s lips, but then he stops.

They both know what it will mean if Martin speaks now.

_Please speak, Martin. Please say something. Say anything_.

_Please don’t let it be too late._

‘Pugwash,’ Douglas continues. His voice is less steady this time, and it sounds more like a question than an announcement.

Martin takes several deep breaths, trying very hard not to look at Douglas.

He wants to speak. He really does. But something is holding him back; doubt that this is real? Quite possibly.

But he knows that if he gives in now – if he joins in, it is far more than playing some random word game. It will be an admission of a thousand things he can’t even name right now; an apology; an accusation; redemption; a white flag.

‘America,’ says Douglas, more quietly. He could – perhaps he should – say something actually directly _to_ Martin, but somehow he thinks this is a bad idea. If he plays it like this, Martin has a choice. Douglas isn’t pushing; he isn’t pointing fingers or demanding anything. He’s just waiting.

Just waiting for Martin to make the next move; everything is down to Martin now.

_Please_.

Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath, and pulls together every scrap of courage he possesses. He closes his eyes and seems to be preparing to flinch away at the slightest wrong move.

‘Arthur Hastings,’ he whispers.

Douglas’s breath catches in his throat, which is suddenly uncomfortably tight.

‘Martin –’ he begins, uncertain what he is actually going to say.

‘Kirk,’ Martin interrupts firmly, not looking around.

Douglas gets the message.

‘Picard,’ he replies.

00000

The game passes slowly; each of them measures every suggestion as carefully as if telling their darkest secrets. Douglas fights the grin that keeps trying to sneak onto his face, and only loses the battle once; when he sees that Martin is doing the same. They look at each other for a moment and fleetingly the argument is, though not forgotten, in the past. Their lips quirk into the briefest of smiles before settling back again, and Douglas feels almost lightheaded with relief.

Arthur walks in sometime nearing the end of the flight and instantly recognises the changed atmosphere; still tense and charged, but somehow more fragile and laced with hope. His gaze flickers between them uncertainly; his eyes glitter with delight. Neither of the pilots speaks to him, too intent on their game; on _keeping_ it as just a game.

When Martin glances at Douglas and says ‘Barbosa’, Arthur leaves, beaming and positively quivering with glee, having completely forgotten what he came in to ask in the first place.

‘What on Earth are you grinning about?’ Carolyn demands as Arthur walks straight into her, humming distractedly.

‘They’re talking to each other!’ Arthur exclaims in a stage whisper; Carolyn looks at once disbelieving and overjoyed, and quickly schools her expression into one of scorn.

‘They’ve been using you as a messenger for the last month or so now, how is today any different?’

‘No, I mean – they’re actually talking _to_ each other! They weren’t using me!’

Carolyn looks at the flight deck door, startled for a moment into silence, then tugs Arthur away so the pilots won’t overhear.

‘What do you mean?’ she asks, ‘what’s happened? I can’t hear –’

‘They’re playing a game,’ Arthur explains, bouncing on the balls of his feet and still grinning. ‘I heard them! They’re talking!’

Carolyn looks doubtfully towards the flight deck again. After this long, she would expect raised voices at least. She would expect…she doesn’t know what she would expect. Not for them to be casually playing one of their ridiculous word games as though nothing has happened. Because if it’s just that damned easy, why didn’t they do it weeks ago? If it can happen just _like that_ , why has it taken this long? She’s actually surprised at how angry this makes her; how can the pair of them have been so stupid as to do this to each other for all this time and then just _snap_ back?

She narrows her eyes, not sure whether she feels exasperated or proud, as she reaches her conclusion.

‘What did you do?’ she asks Arthur.

Arthur tells her; she lets him, and feels the weight lift from her shoulders.

Not that she would ever tell them that.

00000

Martin and Douglas run through the post-landing checks with stiff formality; Arthur is not present to act as mediator, but they still don’t look at one another. Douglas reminds himself firmly not to push things.

But he can’t just leave it like this – it’s almost more awkward than before. At least then they knew where they stood; now, neither is quite sure when to speak or what to say, or whether they are allowed to make eye contact, or laugh.

Something has got to happen. Something has got to be said. But Douglas is painfully, painfully aware that anything could be wrong; anything could be too much, or not enough.

Martin is standing up to leave when he makes his decision.

‘Arthur?’ Douglas calls, pressing the button for the intercom, ‘could you come in here a moment please?’

Martin sinks back into his seat warily. He’s watching Douglas, which Douglas takes as a good sign.

_Please God let this be the right choice._

It’s a kind of middle ground, Douglas thinks; a direct message, delivered indirectly. Less demanding than a full on attack, more to offer than a simple game.

Arthur edges in, looking cautiously optimistic; the expression looks entirely out of place on his features. How can Douglas only _now_ be realising the effects of their…well, disagreement doesn’t seem to quite cover it.

Speaking to Arthur, but looking directly at Martin (who seems afraid to turn his gaze away and remains frozen in place like a startled rabbit), Douglas begins.

‘Could you please inform the Captain,’ he says, very slowly and clearly, ‘that if he ever intends to bring his –’ _well, no point being coy about it now_ ‘– pompous arse of a brother and that hideously garish car of his to the airfield again, I would appreciate some prior warning. That way I can make sure I am nowhere in the vicinity when they arrive. Or better yet, have time to organise some appropriate method of revenge for the elder Crieff.’

Arthur repeats the message dutifully, though Douglas doubts Martin hears it the second time. He flashes a quick smile and a wink at the steward, who returns the gesture clumsily and hurries out.

‘Martin,’ says Douglas quietly. It’s not a question, and it’s not really leading to anything; he just finds that he somehow enjoys being able to say the time actually to the man. ‘Martin,’ he says again.

Martin blinks; his eyes look wet, and Douglas doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone so utterly confused.

‘You –’ says Martin hoarsely, ‘you…’ he trails away.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Douglas. It’s surprisingly easy; so _simple_ – how can it have taken him this long? He curses his own pride and resists the sudden urge to move forward and take Martin’s hands, which are twisting nervously in his lap.

‘You –’ Martin tries again. ‘You – you think he’s a pompous arse?’

‘I’m afraid there’s only room for one person to think that much of themselves at MJN, and the spot is already taken by yours truly,’ Douglas replies, an awful lot more casually than he feels. ‘I was –’ and now _this_ is the hard part to admit, because his default position is usually the exact opposite, ‘I was trying not to embarrass you.’

Martin frowns and parts his lips to say something, but can’t find the right words.

‘You looked, frankly, terrified,’ explains Douglas, finding that the more he talks, the easier the words become. ‘I thought I would spare you the further embarrassment of a confrontation between your First Officer and your brother in the middle of the airfield. I was wrong,’ _why is that so easy to say_ now _?_ ‘And I promise never to resist the urge to humiliate any member of the Crieff family again. From now on you are all at the mercy of my full and not inconsiderable wits.’ He speaks coolly, his tone matter-of-fact, and finds that in doing so, he relaxes quickly.

‘I’ve been stupid, haven’t I?’ Martin mumbles, staring down at his hands, the colour rising in his cheeks.

‘Yes,’ replies Douglas shortly. Martin snorts with something like amusement. Douglas’s heart lifts. ‘Come on, Captain,’ he offers, standing up and fighting the sudden impulse to offer Martin his hand. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’

It is deliberately not a question; he knows Martin has not yet recovered his wits enough to refuse a direct instruction.

00000

Douglas’s restaurant choice is extremely careful. In the end he opts for something decidedly middle-of-the-range, hyper aware of the fact that anywhere too expensive will only add to the already suffocating pressure they are both under. He also doubts Martin’s pride would stand such a blatant display of the differences in their respective pay-packets – or lack thereof. And being surrounded by other patrons far more wealthy than himself is sure to make the Captain uncomfortable.

It occurs to Douglas that he is probably putting rather too _much_ thought into this, but it is increasingly difficult to ignore the large part of his brain which seems to be assuming…well…but of course not. He’s being ridiculous.

Martin fidgets in the passenger seat of the car Douglas has hired. Conversation is stilted and awkward.

It is almost exactly like any number of first – _no_ , no, _it’s not a date, don’t be stupid_ , he tells himself firmly. It’s two colleagues – friends – two grown men settling their differences over a…meal. A _dinner_ …why not a pint? Why didn’t he say _drink_? Far more relaxed, and surely much more appropriate…

And why, of all people, of everyone in the entire world, is _Martin Crieff_ the only one able to make Douglas feel quite so…self-conscious? He has never had this problem before.

00000

‘I’m sorry,’ says Douglas suddenly, staring at the menu rather than facing Martin. _God, this_ is _a date, this is an actual date with Martin, what a stupid idea, how ridiculous – what on Earth possessed him to suggest a_ meal _?_ Douglas is certain he would not feel half this uncomfortable if they had just gone for a drink. Or better still just swept this under the carpet and been done with it…why do they even need to _talk_ , for God’s sake, what good will it do?

‘So you’ve said,’ replies Martin. Though he sounds nervous, he, by contrast, seems to be gaining confidence from their surroundings, and Douglas even sees a small smile creeping onto his face. It dawns slowly that the reason for this might very well be Douglas’s own clear uncertainty. Well, _one_ of them has to be in control of the situation, don’t they? Douglas momentarily flashes back to the landing in St Petersburg; for all his usual indecision and nervousness, Martin is more than capable of doing what needs to be done in an emergency. A swell of something like pride and affection, mingled with no small amount of surprise, rises in Douglas’s chest.

‘I’m hoping eventually it might illicit a response,’ Douglas prompts.

Martin puts down his menu and Douglas finally looks up at him. There is a faint pink tinge on his cheeks and he’s twisting the corner of the menu nervously between his fingers, but his voice is oddly level.

‘What are you sorry for?’ he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Douglas waves away the waiter who comes to take their order.

‘Do I really need to spell it out?’

‘No – I mean –’ the pink has darkened to red, and the menu tears but he doesn’t seem to notice. Automatically, Douglas reaches out and places a hand over Martin’s. Both of them freeze, then Douglas coughs and starts to pull away. Martin puts his other hand on top of Douglas’s to stop him, looking shocked at his own daring. ‘I mean it was my fault,’ he whispers, avoiding Douglas’s eyes again.

Douglas laughs, relaxing somewhat. ‘Typical,’ he says. Martin looks hurt and tugs his hand back, but Douglas tightens his grip. Now that their roles appear to be gradually returning to normal, he feels a lot more comfortable and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Am I going to have to fight to _take_ the blame now?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows, ‘I thought this was all because you blamed _me_.’

‘It – it was,’ Martin mutters, ‘at – well, at first. I thought – but you – well –’

‘Full sentences please, Captain. I’m afraid I have no Babel fish to hand so translation might be a problem.’

Martin lets out an involuntary laugh, but then his face falls and he pulls his hand away properly. Douglas lets him go, watching the way Martin’s eyes are darting around the restaurant fearfully, as though expecting “April Fool” to be shouted at any moment.

‘I’m –’ Martin reaches out for his glass and takes a sip to delay having to answer. His hand is shaking so much, however, and he is so nervous that when he goes to put it back down the edge catches on the pepper pot, sending it veering sideways and it spills across the table. ‘Oh no – oh, I didn’t – I’m sorry, I –’ he leaps back, suddenly close to tears, grabbing his napkin and attempting to mop it up but knocking down Douglas’s drink as well in the process. The salt shaker falls and smashes on the floor, and then he can’t stop the tears, and he feels so stupid, and why did he ever dare hope this could end well? Why did he ever let Douglas bring him out, just to be humiliated, just so he could make a fool of himself in front of everyone, in front of _Douglas_ , all over again? ‘I’m sorry – I’m – I – no, let me – I didn’t –’

‘Martin,’ Douglas’s steady voice breaks into his panicked apologies, and he feels a warm hand pulling at his elbow. He realises vaguely that he has sunk to the floor and is trying to pick up the pieces of the broken salt shaker, but his hands are trembling and his vision is blurry. For the first time it hits him properly how very _tired_ he is. ‘Come on,’ says Douglas, ‘let’s go.’

‘No, I –’

‘Martin, seriously, just leave it. It’s fine.’ He throws a couple of notes onto the table, not really bothering to work out how much it ought to be, and gently lifts Martin to his feet. ‘This was a stupid idea, I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to the hotel, okay?’

‘I’m sorry – I’m – I’ve ruined everything, I didn’t mean – I’m sorry –’

‘Do be quiet, Captain,’ Douglas instructs wearily, and Martin distantly registers that he is being bundled back into the safety of Douglas’s hired car. ‘Go to sleep,’ he says.

Martin does.

Douglas watches him as much as the road on the way back to the hotel. It seems that the stress of the last few weeks have just caught up with him all in one go; he barely stirs for the entire journey, completely sound asleep and looking, for the first time in a long while, utterly relaxed. He leans to the side in his seat, and once Douglas has to push him upright again so that he doesn’t get in the way, or wake up with too much of a stiff neck. His breathing is slow and even; the dark shadows under his eyes are more obvious than ever.

‘If I ever meet your brother again…’ Douglas mutters furiously, having shifted the blame now entirely to Simon and off either himself or Martin. ‘God, have you been sleeping at all?’

Martin has still not woken by the time they reach the hotel, and Douglas is reluctant to disturb him; he looks as though he really needs this rest. In the end, he scoops the younger man (with slightly worrying ease) out of the car, and carries him up to Douglas’s own room, depositing him gently on the bed. He stands for a moment, looking at Martin’s face. After denying himself the indulgence more vehemently than ever since their argument, he finds that he has an awful lot of looking to catch up on.

Arthur’s words echo tantalisingly in his ears. _He likes you_ …it’s such an ambiguous statement; it could mean anything. It doesn’t _have_ to mean – but given Martin’s reaction to apparently assuming that Douglas might feel something for Simon (honestly, _Simon_ , of all people…well, he argues reasonably; _Martin_ of all people…). Given his almost-hand-holding at the restaurant…it all _fits_ certainly, but…

‘Douglas…’ Martin breathes. Douglas freezes, quickly averting his gaze and rummaging in his overnight bag for want of anything else to do, before he realises that Martin is still asleep. Frowning, but with an amused smirk on his face, he straightens up and moves over to the bed. He reaches out, calculating the move and the chances of waking Martin carefully, and brushes a lock of hair from over Martin’s eye. Martin smiles slightly in his sleep, turning into the touch, and Douglas pulls away; his slightly puzzled expression has melted away to leave something much more familiar in its place. Something self-satisfied and predatory.

He grabs his wash bag and heads for the bathroom; hopefully by the time he has showered Martin will have woken, and Douglas finally has a definite idea of what he plans to do.

00000

The room Martin wakes up in is unfamiliar. This is nothing unusual; he’s used to spending half his time in cheap hotels and it’s nothing very disconcerting to find himself in yet another. What is slightly unnerving is that he can’t quite remember how he got here.

He thinks back, pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes. It’s dark, and the bed is unusually comfortable. He blinks slowly, reluctant to get up just yet.

Then he remembers.

Oh _, God_. Oh damn, oh damn, oh _damn_.

A wave of nausea overtakes him momentarily, more out of fear and embarrassment than anything, and he leans back, hitting his head painfully on the wall and closing his eyes.

And just when they were so close to…to _something_ …to at least being back on speaking terms…and he had briefly, very briefly, dared to hope something more…

Why does he have to ruin _everything_? Why does he always have to be so awkward and clumsy and stupid? He had a chance, a real _chance_ , of putting things right and now – and now –

He presses his palms to his forehead and groans.

He had dared to hope that Arthur was right, had dared to believe that this could be over.

He can’t stay at MJN after this, he knows. It’s a dull, painful blow which causes a lump to rise in his throat. It’s been bad enough already, but now, after having tried and failed to fix things – how can he do this to himself? He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand the daily reminder of what _could_ have been, if only he’d been slightly less of his usual incompetent self. He doesn’t blame Douglas; Douglas was trying to help. It’s all his fault really; Martin’s.

He’ll finish this trip, get back home, and write his resignation. He should have done it long ago.

Maybe he’ll find a paying airline now.

_Fat chance._

Maybe he’ll become a full time man-with-a-van.

_Oh, God._

‘Ah, you’re awake. At last,’ Douglas’s voice breaks into Martin’s thoughts; there’s a rustle of bags, a whiff of take-away chips, and the click of a switch before Martin has to close his eyes against the glare of the light.

‘What are you –?’ he manages weakly, squinting and hurrying to stand up,

‘Food,’ Douglas holds up the bags, ‘the restaurant idea didn’t go down too well, I’m starving, and I wouldn’t touch the room service in this place for all the sushi in Japan.’

‘But – I mean –’ Martin’s eyes widen, ‘this is – did I fall asleep in _your_ room?’ he exclaims desperately, ‘I’m sorry, I –’

‘Alright, from now on, we are both banned from using that word,’ Douglas declares, ‘I’m thoroughly sick of hearing it, to be honest, and you have nothing to apologise for. You fell asleep in the car, after I told you to, and I brought you here because frankly you looked too tired to stand up and I figured you’d be easier to transport unconscious as, knowing you, you would have objected to being carried if you were awake.’

‘But…’ Martin responds automatically, then finds he has nothing to say. ‘I’m – I mean, what happened, I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry I – sorry, I mean –’ Douglas raises an eyebrow and throws one of the bags he is holding to Martin.

‘Eat,’ he instructs. ‘I think I’d better do the talking for now, don’t you agree?’ Martin nods meekly, unwrapping his chips and picking at them gingerly. Douglas rolls his eyes. ‘Just eat them, Martin. Stop feeling guilty, you can pay me back later if you really want to.’ He settles into the chair beside the window, stretching out his long legs and perching them on the edge of the bed, mere inches from where Martin is now sitting.

‘So, from the top; and correct me if I get anything wrong,’ Douglas begins smoothly, ‘about…six weeks ago now? Your van broke down. Your brother was in the area, for whatever reason. He offered you a lift or you asked for one – I’m going to assume the former given how uncomfortable you looked about the whole thing – and on arriving you immediately ran into me. I proceeded to compliment your brother and his car. You assumed that meant I liked him, which by the way was the whole idea, though not as you took it, and you got jealous. I had no idea what I was supposed to have done wrong – and still maintain that at this point I hadn’t done _anything_ wrong – you snapped, I responded in kind, and it all rather snowballed from there. Correct?’

Martin nods sheepishly.

‘Tell me, did Arthur give you a talking to as well?’

Martin looks startled then nods again. He’s pushing his food around now, looking guilty and ashamed, and not eating any of it. Douglas puts his own to the side, though he is still hungry, wanting to focus his attention solely on Martin now.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said – well – look, I’m just repeating what he told me okay? I’m not saying it’s true or anything, I just –’

‘Understood,’ Douglas interrupts, leaning back in his chair and waiting.

‘He said,’ Martin continues in a small voice, ‘that…that you wanted to talk to me, and that you liked me. He said – well – that you didn’t have to be nice to _me_ , because we’re friends…but that you had to be…polite to Simon because…you don’t know him. He sort suggested that…well…never mind.’

Douglas considers pressing the point, but decides against it; he can work out what Arthur might have suggested from his own conversation with the steward, and the purpose of this is not to make Martin any more uncomfortable than he already is.

‘Is that it?’ Douglas asks lightly; not challenging or expecting, just checking. Martin nods.

‘But this is just what he said!’ he exclaims, desperate to make this fact abundantly clear, ‘I’m not saying I believed him!’

‘Would you like to know what he said to me?’

Martin hesitates, then, ‘I…yes.’ He looks hopeful suddenly; Douglas smiles.

‘He told me that you were jealous of your brother, which I informed him was painfully obvious. Which it was. He stressed the point, repeatedly, and said you thought I _liked_ – emphasis entirely intentional – Simon, more than I _liked_ you.’

Martin is beetroot red by this point, and Douglas’s smile grows wider.

‘He seemed quite convinced – without actually being explicit about it of course, this is Arthur – that you…I believe the term is “fancy” me,’ he finishes triumphantly. Martin actually buries his head in his hands at this point, and Douglas’s smile becomes a grin. ‘Do you know what I deduce from this, Martin?’

Martin looks up at Douglas through his fingers, fighting tears of humiliation and wincing as he shakes his head silently. Douglas stands up smoothly and cross the small space between them, kneeling down so that he isn’t towering over Martin. He reaches forward, hands steady even though his heart is racing, and brushes his fingertips ever so lightly across Martin’s wrist, which makes him jump and move his hands away. Douglas immediately cups his palm to Martin’s jaw and leans closer; Martin’s eyes are wide with fear and hope in equal measure. He is sitting absolutely still, as though afraid this is some sort of hallucination that he might accidently banish with even the smallest movement.

‘Arthur Shappey is a genius, and we are both absolute clots,’ Douglas whispers at last, and closes the gap between them.

The kiss is brief and chaste; Douglas doesn’t push for anything more, just presses his lips against Martin’s and moves away again. Martin’s expression has not changed; he seems to have frozen in shock. Douglas laughs and kisses him again, and again – only gently, not expecting anything, not trying to force it any further – just connecting softly before pulling away, watching Martin carefully and waiting for him to react.

‘You know,’ he whispers after the fifth time, ‘you are allowed to kiss back.’

Far from kissing back, however, Martin pulls away. Douglas is not worried; there is no sign of rejection in Martin’s expression, only stunned disbelief.

‘Is this –?’

‘Please don’t as if this is real, Martin; I assure you, your imagination is not capable of summoning up an accurate representation of me, no matter how many otters it can picture. My charms are something else entirely.’

‘So I’m not –?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re –?’

‘Yes.’

‘And we’re actually –?’

‘Yes. Or we would be, if you would be quiet and get on with it.’

This time, Martin responds. Enthusiastically. And then both of them are grinning, and they stand up, pressed together, and Martin’s hands are clutching the back of Douglas’s shirt, and Douglas decides Martin’s hair isn’t too long at all, but just the right length for running his fingers through. And _oh_ once Martin gets started he’s actually not a bad kisser and Douglas actually has to fight for dominance but he doesn’t mind, because he wouldn’t have it any other way and he chuckles and Martin even giggles a little nervously and then Douglas’s fingers are on Martin’s shirt buttons and –

Martin pulls away, breathing hard.

‘What’s wrong?’ Douglas asks, a little breathlessly.

‘I was trying to make _you_ jealous,’ says Martin, with the voice of someone getting an unpleasant admission out of the way as fast as possible. He tries to turn away so that Douglas can’t see his face, but Douglas catches his arm and pulls his around.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘At the bar. After we – when I got drunk. The day after…it.’

‘I remember,’ says Douglas. ‘But why are you telling me this _now_?’ he gestures with frustration at Martin’s open top button and dishevelled hair, eyes drawn automatically to his kiss-swollen lips.

‘I – it seemed…important,’ Martin replies a little helplessly. ‘I don’t know, it just – I thought you should – you should know…while we’re…it seemed…I wanted to be…honest.’

‘Martin, whatever you did or didn’t do that night is absolutely no business of mine. I’m much, _much_ more interested in what you’re going to do _tonight_ ,’ he says pointedly. Martin blushes; Douglas is tempted to continue – he really rather likes that expression on Martin’s face – but resists.

‘I just thought…we’re…we’re even, aren’t we? So…’

‘Well no, because I wasn’t _trying_ to make you jealous, was I?’ Martin’s face crumples at this, and Douglas realises too late that this was very much the _wrong_ thing to say. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he clarifies. There’s a pause, and he raises an eyebrow pointedly, ‘well? While you’re in a confessing mood, did you succeed?’

‘No,’ Martin mumbles, looking defiant and embarrassed at the same time. ‘I’m…me. What do you expect?’

Douglas rolls his eyes, ‘I was right before; that uniform really is _wasted_ on you, Captain.’

Martin doesn’t have a chance to look offended, because by the time his words have registered, Douglas is kissing him again, and he forgets what it is he’s supposed to be annoyed about.


End file.
